


Witness

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ficlet, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 02:35:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13424898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Returned to Valinor in a Maia’s custody, Maglor runs into his mother.





	Witness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Solarfox123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarfox123/gifts).



> A/N: This is a gift for auniverseforgotten, who donated to Aha Pūnana Leo and the Redhawk Native American Arts Council for my [karma commissions drive](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/167176922380/karma-commissions) and requested “Eonwe/Maglor”.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Silmarillion or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The whicker basket in his hands is half-full, now hovering over an attractive stand. The pears of it are ripe and luscious-looking, the apples next to them every bit as tantalizing. Over the many years, Maglor had forgotten just how _wondrous_ the fruit of Valinor could grow. Here, where Yavanna’s touch still lingers on the earth, everything is in its prime. And Maglor’s done nothing to deserve that return to grace—if he could, he would eat only the ash of the other world. He pulls away from the stand as a familiar cloud of bitterness settles over him. He doesn’t deserve _any of this._

Not even his freedom. But Eönwë’s estate, while built to accommodate the Elven form, has no depth beyond aesthetics. Eönwë had to have a kitchen built _just for Maglor_ , and its only stock is what Maglor buys on these infrequent trips out to the market. While Maglor makes his way slowly down the bustling street, head hung and eyes always averted, Eönwë drifts about the people. He has no such shame, no difficult greeting anyone. And the people _love_ him, as well they should, and they swarm him with their bubbling attention. Every so often, Maglor pauses, drawn again to the sight of it. His eyes will find Eönwë, always knowing just what direction, just how far, and his gut will twist at the sheer beauty of the image: Eönwë, so exceedingly handsome in his angelic form, smiling calmly at his adoring public. He shines like the stars, ethereal as Arien and ephemeral as the clouds, staggering and captivating. Maglor guiltily prefers the days where they have no reason to go anywhere but Eönwë’s compound, and Eönwë is _his_ alone.

But those dark thoughts are the reason that he’s here only by the grace of the Valar, watched over by a Maia, cruelly withheld from his father and his brothers.

“Makalaurë?”

The sudden voice turns his head. For one wild moment, his heart quickens, breath hitching in surprise, though he knows the reaction to be foolish. He simply spent so very long apart from his beloved mother that he forgets how close they are again, how easy it is to run into one another. Nerdanel comes around a booth of quilted rugs to stand before him, her arms automatically outstretched.

She envelops him in a warm embrace before he’s ready. All Maglor can do is lean into the touch. He picks up the faint scent of her lavender perfume, light but so _familiar_ —it hasn’t changed in centuries. _She_ hasn’t changed. As she withdraws again, she still looks young and lovely, like she did the day that he kissed her cheek goodbye and followed his father off across the sea.

Her hair is as bright as Maedhros’. Her eyes are as kind as Amras’ and Amrod’s. Her beauty is as palpable as Celegorm’s, her body fit as Caranthir’s. The only one that isn’t in her is Curufin, who was all their father. As much as he adores her, it always pains him to see her face. Most of all, it reminds him of the time when they were _all together_ , full of youth and pleasure, knowing nothing of the wider world. It’s very hard to smile for her, but he tries. There’s no need to make her worry.

Her smile is gentle and sincere, and she murmurs, “It is good to see you, as always. It has been too long again. You must come to visit me.”

Maglor wishes he could promise to. But he knows what he deserves, and it isn’t the peace of family. He chides, “Mother, you know that I am meant to be imprisoned.” Her face falls instantly, as though she’d forgotten—somehow forgiven all his crimes, his failings and his sins. But she was told when he was tried, when he was given away to the custody of Manwë’s own herald, held back from the rest of the unspoiled elves of Valinor, those who turned away from the violence that he aided. Even the chance meetings that they’ve shared, passing one another in the streets on Maglor’s journey for supplies, is more than Maglor’s meant to have.

Nerdanel still sighs, “I wish you would not speak like that.” He nods in simple apology, if, for nothing else, than for causing his mother pain. When she wears such innocent disappointment, it becomes harder to look at her.

He casts his eyes away, and once again, they land on Eönwë without meaning to. Now Eönwë is speaking to a clothier by a stand full of brightly coloured robes. Nerdanel must have followed his gaze, because a moment later, she quietly tells him, “In that, I am happy for you.”

“Happy?” He turns back to her, lifting a brow. Her smile has returned, small and knowing.

“You cannot fool me, my child,” she warns him, shaking her head with the ghost of a little laugh. “I remember well when you were young, and you would speak endlessly of him, aglow with praise and fondness. Or have you forgotten how much you loved to play your harp beneath his balcony and write songs inspired by his wings?”

“Mother,” Maglor huffs, his cheeks flushing hot, because of course he remembers all that, but he’d hoped that no one else would. He hadn’t realized his childish yearning had been so obvious. Nerdanel pats his shoulder indulgently. 

“I am only expressing my support. You know I only ever wished you the greatest happiness.” Nerdanel pauses to cast her eyes back to their subject. “After so many years of you pining for his attention, it seems that he would have no one by his side _but_ you.”

“Only because the Valar have commanded it.”

“I think not. I have heard, after all, that it was Eönwë who asked to shelter you, and now I see the way he is with you. He cares a great deal more for you than you know, Makalaurë.” 

Maglor doesn’t dare to listen. At the polite dip of his mother’s head, he turns back the way that she has, and finds Eönwë strolling straight towards them. Maglor dips automatically into a bow, though Eönwë has told him many times that no such ceremony is necessary. It would feel _wrong_ not to show his reverence. Eönwë stops just before them, and he himself bows his head to Nerdanel. 

“Eönwë,” she greets, and though Maglor expects her to end it there, she announces, “I must thank you for looking after my son.” Maglor wants to groan.

He doesn’t get the chance—Eönwë’s fingers brush over his, and the sheer warmth of it sends a shockwave down his spine. Eönwë intertwines their hands and lifts Maglor’s up to his lips, where he presses a chaste kiss against the back. Maglor’s cheeks were already glowing, but he tries to will his reaction down. Eönwë tells his mother, “I assure you, it is my pleasure.” 

It’s _Maglor’s_ pleasure. His imprisonment is no punishment: it’s his paradise. But that fills him with the most shame of all, and he finds himself once more casting his eyes aside. Yet he can’t free his hand, couldn’t if he wanted to: he guiltily savours the contact, treasuring the velvety feeling of Eönwë’s palm pressed against his own.

Nerdanel bids, “I will leave you, then. I must be getting back. But I do wish to invite you sometime, the both of you, to have dinner with me, if you may.”

“I will see if I can arrange that,” Eönwë promises, which makes Maglor tense. 

Yet he can sense his mother’s smile. She touches his shoulder again before she leaves, and then she’s sweeping off, swallowed back up in the busy crowd of elves, too many of which are familiar. Drained and overwhelmed, Maglor squeezes Eönwë’s hand.

The two of them are left alone. Maglor’s basket isn’t full, but he still murmurs, “I believe that I am finished.” He can’t bear to be outside anymore, amongst his peers and past. Eönwë doesn’t question him.

Eönwë pulls him close and cocoons around him, arms firm about his waist. Maglor buries his face in Eönwë’s shoulders, and Eönwë’s great wings spread out beyond them, the two of them swept off in Eönwë wind.

And Maglor’s delivered home.


End file.
